My Love, you once had the world under your feet.
_______You once had fame attached to your name.
_______You once had everything others would die to have.

My Love, you are now but a fallen rock star.

Detaching yourself from the people who loved you (but barely knew you),
_______leaving behind the wealth that was readily available to your hands,
_______leaving behind the fame and recognition,
_______leaving behind your band and what was your passion—

—most of all, leaving behind a legend.

You left all of that behind and decided to move into my humble apartment. Someplace that was never worthy of an A-list rock star.

But you said it didn’t matter.

I was with you during the prime of your life, the peak of your career, before that, as well as after. You said it was enough; it was incomparable to the size of my apartment.

I watch you silently as you sit on the couch alone, watching the videos of your heyday over and over again. Back then, you were almost God-like; a voice of full of power, a smile full of charm on your porcelain face, an attitude brimming with confidence. You gripped the audience’s attention like a vice, sending them to their knees at every command.

I’ve seen how those watching you cried, losing every sense of control they had.
I’ve seen how they transformed into savages, fighting for a fraction of a second of euphoria, even if it was something as minutely momentarily as having a bead of your sweat on their fingers.

They dubbed you and your band as the Invincible, only meant to soar forward.

You brew your songs like broth, piecing together the music slowly; rhythm and foundation first and frills later, selecting words for your lyrics meticulously like picking spices.

The band produced music that reverberated through each and every soul, while your voice could shake every atom of their being.

Even the silence within your songs could be jarring.

There was a voice that could make every note sung, special; and every scream, haunting.

But one day, you noticed a change.

Crystal clear notes that were once powerful went weak. Perfectly haunting screams were now low, filthy, rough, jagged, ugly, off. Within the voice there were traces of confusion, insecurity, and disgust. Reluctance in singing the melodies accumulated.

It was something that everyone including you, could not comprehend.

And then you fought with yourself. Tormented by what you couldn’t accept, you wanted to leave.

The last thing you said (to me):
“I hate my voice.”

The very last of that voice was one of desperation, one of shame, and one of utter abhorrence.
After that, all went silent, and there was nothing more.
I saw your decision to silence that voice coming.

You were probably ill and you didn’t know it.

You created a new life of your own; you learnt to live a life where you could survive without speaking.

I crawl into our bed next to you just before we turn in and like how I would every night, I run my hand through your disheveled hair telling you softly,

“I love you,”

And waited.

Waiting in hope that you’ll repeat the same words back to me
(Those words you last said four years ago)
Waiting in hope for an assurance, a reply, anything.

Nothing.

They were words that were the hardest, and not like me to say them, but I obliged anyway.

Securing me in your embrace, you tuck me into bed and hold me as we sleep.

I often wondered if our love had withered
______________________________away
________________________________with your voice, along with
___________________________________your dying passion for music.

It was more resignation than disappointment. Four years in and I came to believe that it was possible for one to totally forget how to speak, how to operate an organ in the body that has been left untouched for so long.

I couldn’t understand, and I never did seek to.

You and me, we didn’t work this way.

Yet in the dawn of the next morning, like every single morning when we would lie in bed, I wake and find you already up before me. Sitting with your back against the headboard, I often catch you like this, deep in thought.

The sunlight spills in through the window and catches the pale of your skin of your beautiful face. Your eyes, glazed like frosted glass, bore no emotion. It’s almost peaceful and calm. But I knew, just like a frozen lake, beneath the still surface, you were alive. Every bit of you struggling, writhing with the cruel fact, trying to think just how to breathe right.

Like every morning without fail, I greet

“I love you,”

And wait for your reply.

Something stirs within. Like a sudden twitch, imperceptible, if one hadn’t been paying attention when it bolted past (for it gives no second chances).

You loathe,
You detest,
You absolutely hate not being able to say—

Removing the covers, you silently get out of bed and head out of the room.

Labels: etc, muse, write